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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25714003">Elision</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightbloomingcereus/pseuds/nightbloomingcereus'>nightbloomingcereus</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Name That Author prompt fills [6]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman &amp; Terry Pratchett</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>After the Bastille, Crowley's Tongue (Good Omens), M/M, Oral Sex, Post-Scene: Paris 1793 (Good Omens), Rimming, what happens in Paris stays in Paris</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 10:07:15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>498</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25714003</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightbloomingcereus/pseuds/nightbloomingcereus</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>In Paris, after the Bastille, Crowley insists on speaking only in French, which Aziraphale can barely understand.  In the absence of language to hide behind, other, more essential truths become evident.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Name That Author prompt fills [6]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1737703</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>108</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Name That Author Round Six</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Elision</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written for Round 6 of Name that Author on the GO-events discord, for the prompt: "No conversation's a good place to start… I wanna speak in tongues".  Thanks to isleofsolitude for running this round!</p><p>About the title: <i>Elision</i> is a linguistic device, common in French, where unvoiced letters in a word are omitted and replaced with an apostrophe.  This often results in the joining of two words into one.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>Crowley's French was flawless. It wasn't so much the vocabulary, or even his command of the language, but something about the way his serpent's tongue danced effortlessly along the sibilants and the elisions and the lilting cadences of the language.</p><p>It made sense. French was the language of temptation, of desire. Aziraphale's own voice, with its clipped, precise English syllables, was wholly unsuited to such pursuits.</p><p>After they'd escaped the Bastille, Crowley had insisted on speaking solely in French, claiming the necessity of blending in. At the creperie, he'd ordered for them both, conversing with the waiter in a fluent rush of words, without so much as glancing at the menu. Aziraphale himself barely uttered a word in his broken French, but he was more than content with the crepes, which were the best he'd ever tasted, and the company.</p><p>Later, in Crowley's rooms, Aziraphale drunkenly admitted that he'd understood perhaps a tenth of their one-sided conversation. Crowley, equally inebriated, responded with a stream of musical, fluid French. Aziraphale let it roll over him like a warm tide. He understood four words, the way Crowley's voice went just slightly high at the end.</p><p>It was as if, when Crowley had restarted time, it had come back a little slantwise, transposed into another language.</p><p>The candlelight flickered, honey-gold as serpents' eyes. He laid his feet in Crowley's lap, allowed him to roll the fine silk stockings down, to cup his trembling hand around the curve of a calf, to press his lips to the creamy, soft swell of a thigh.</p><p>Crowley's breath was warm against bare skin, his mouth wet and tantalizing around the tip of Aziraphale's cock. Everything else – language, circumstance, context – was insignificant.</p><p>His forked tongue was devastatingly agile, in language and other pursuits. Its bifurcated tip cradled the underside of Aziraphale's cock as he licked downward, all the way to the root, and traced a languid, shivery path around the heavy swell of his balls and down the line of his perineum, circling delicately around the exquisitely sensitive rim of his entrance.</p><p>Aziraphale was making incoherent, wild sounds, nothing so comprehensible or constrained as language. Words were inadequate to convey the immense, overwhelming rush of feeling. Somehow, Crowley understood. The movement of his tongue intensified, its warm, wet length breaching the tight outer ring to slide smoothly inside, discovering his deepest, most secret places. Every thrust of that tongue, curled just so, brought an exquisite pressure to bear against something that felt like the primal source of all sensation.</p><p>Aziraphale shook apart, in an ecstasy beyond words, on the twin points of that clever, eloquent tongue.</p>
<hr/><p>When they saw each other again, months later, they spoke English and carefully avoided any mention of Paris, but Aziraphale held the memory of that night close, a talisman against despair, in the deepest and most secret places of his heart.</p><p>French was the language of temptation, and of love, too.</p><p>Even he knew what <em>mon ange, mon amour</em> meant.</p>
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